


Hate That I Miss You

by messofthejess



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Character Study, Christmas, Christmas Angst, Epistolary, F/F, Past Character Death, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:01:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22743691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/messofthejess/pseuds/messofthejess
Summary: Fiona drunk-writes a letter to Ebb on Christmas Eve.
Relationships: Ebeneza "Ebb" Petty/Fiona Pitch
Comments: 7
Kudos: 31
Collections: Carry On Countdown 2019





	Hate That I Miss You

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this to fill two prompts for the 2019 Carry On Countdown, Day 7 (WLW) and Day 11 (Angst). I just realized over two months later that I never cross-posted to AO3. Whoops. 
> 
> You can find the original fic here, along with some beautiful art from whitefire17draws: https://messofthejess.tumblr.com/post/189442013393/hate-that-i-miss-you

~~Dear Ebb~~

~~Dear Scrooge~~

~~Tom Petty’s bastard daughter~~

~~Debbie Harry if she was English and lost the shitty eyeliner~~

Hey you.

It’s Christmas Eve, and I’ve crawled off to my childhood bedroom at Malcolm’s house with a bottle of whiskey to write you this. If you were here, you’d shoo me out of my cloud of self-pity and tell me to go spend time with my family, and then I’d shove your shoulder and tell you that they’re all utter wanks. My nieces and nephews barely know they’re human yet, let alone care if I’m dozing off on the couch while they tear into their presents. (Baz and Mordelia are exceptions. And my favorites. Entirely coincidental, that.) But you’d be sitting on my bed, in one of your more hideous jumpers, insisting that I get into the holiday spirit and no, that does not include more eggnog.

If you were here. Which you’re not.

Why aren’t you here?

I’m alone this year. Oh, I’m sure I’ll find some sozzled bloke in a pub tomorrow who’ll think I’m the most uproariously funny bitch he’s come across, we’ll fuck, and I’ll crawl out of there before my feelings catch up to me. But that’s not what I mean by alone. Every year, I could stare up at the ceiling of wherever I’d landed for the night and know you were out there. Probably trying to convince your goats not to eat the spruce wreaths you put around their necks so they could be festive. Humming along to carols on the radio and crying into your hot cocoa over _Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer_ (you’d think you were watching _Bambi_ , for Christ’s sake). Waiting for Nico to call you, even though no one is supposed to talk to him, so you could whisper a hurried _Merry Christmas_ over the phone.

You’re not out there anymore. The cabin squatting in the shadows of Watford sits empty. Someone else takes care of the goats now—Mitali made sure of that. There’s a body buried under the school with your name on the stone plaque above a cairn, but I can’t believe it’s you. I refuse.

We were supposed to have more time than this. You were supposed to give me enough time to get my shit together and join you out in that field where we first kissed, where you decided to make your home. Did you know I begged Nat to give you that goatherd job, just so I knew where I could always find you? Selfish, I know.

I wouldn’t have made much of a goatherd’s wife, and my inner punk wouldn’t have been able to stand living so close to a symbol of authority. How did that song of yours go: _we don’t need no education, we don’t need no thought control_?

We could have been so happy.

But no. You had to go and be _noble_. Fuck your nobility. I doubt whoever you saved will even remember your name tonight, but I will.

Nico knew, by the way. You were always so scared of him finding us out—I remember being shoved in a closet more than once, oh the _irony_ —but he had a clue the whole time. He lingered in the back while they planted you, where no one could catch a glimpse. We shared a cigarette in my car, and I broke down over the steering wheel. That day, I felt so numb, and the only thing I felt was his too-long fingernails scratching through my jacket, trying to comfort me.

“ _I know_ ,” he growled at me. “ _Ya loved her. Don’t ever doubt she loved ya back, even when she was lustin’ after those stupid dryads._ ”

We were supposed to have more time.

I haven’t wished for anything from Father Christmas since I was ten years old. But tonight, I wish I could ask him to bring you back to me.

Guess I’ll have to see you on the other side.

Yours for the loving,

Fi

**Author's Note:**

> You should come follow me on Tumblr @messofthejess and motivate me into writing some more!


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